


Sharp Teeth and Tired Eyes

by PrinceNux



Category: Original Work, Poetry - Fandom
Genre: And There Will Be More, and yup, enjoy this angst and anger, or dont i dont care, so it gets its own, this poem wouldn't fit into any of my other works
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-22 11:42:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 11,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10696305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrinceNux/pseuds/PrinceNux
Summary: Largely uncategorized and mostly new poetry





	1. Green Ashes

John Green and Jay Asher

they are at war

between each other

in an epic battle of epic proportions

to see who can glorify and romanticize

the most terrible and potentially life-ending things

 

ACT 1:

Jay Asher started first

with 13 Reasons Why in 2007

because why can’t suicide and depression

and blaming that on other people

be romantic, huh?!

 

Well from first hand experience

there is nothing romantic about being so depressed

that you want to die

 

I was 12 years old 

two years after Jay Asher’s book came out

and I was in my room

not knowing about the book

cutting myself for the first time

and jesus christ I bled like a stuck pig

 

Fast forward to seventh grade

three years after the book was out on shelves

and I had my own copy

that I read through in one day

and came away from it with a vaguely

sick feeling in my stomach

 

Because I saw myself

in that girl

who wanted to die so badly

that she actually went through with it

but what I couldn’t understand was why

she felt the need to set up this sick game

where she gave 13 whole reasons why

to her fellow students

some of which she had never talked to

they were each why she had killed herself

like what the hell

 

And even more so

I couldn’t understand why

Jay Asher thought he had the right

to write this book

to make suicide and depression

into this tragic and romantic

and horribly glorified thing

because being suicidal is just so much fun

 

But what wasn’t fun was 

jumping ahead a few more years

to when I was 16

and doing online school because of the massive

mental breakdown I’d had over Christmas break

in my freshman year of high school

and I tried to kill myself

 

And there was nothing romantic

about waking up in the middle of the night

and then in the morning

and having to tell my mother

that I had taken forty of my sleeping pills

there was nothing romantic about that at all

 

ACT 2:

then in 2012

just five years after Jay Asher’s book

it was John Green’s turn to fire back

and since depression and suicide and blaming that

on other people was already taken

why John just shrugged his shoulders and

made it his mission to

romanticize and glorify the big C of diseases

CANCER

 

Because what isn’t romantic

about these two dying kids

and so many others and chemo

that makes you puke and strips your body

of its immune system so that a cold

might kill you

and what isn’t there to glorify about radiation to kill

the thing that is attacking your body

from the inside out and even if the radiation

does kill your white blood cells

and leaves you wide open for all other kinds of infection

at least the cancer is temporarily under control right

 

Because even if you lose your hair

and your brain has a potential of being damaged

as well as your thyroid

blood system

heart

gastrointestinal tract

reproductive tract

and bone marrow

just think

an author may choose to make a romance story

around this disease that is slowly killing you

and doesn’t that make you feel better

 

And even though

if Augustus Waters was real

almost every girl and guy within a five

mile radius would probably sneer

at the cigarette that was never lit

because it’s all about the metaphor sweetheart

he was just the perfect guy in the book and then

in the movie where the audience was

actually able to kind of not really see the

prosthetic leg that that character had

because hey why just go after cancer

when you can go after amputees as well

go big or go home ya know

 

And even though

the book wasn’t so much about cancer

as it was about this girl

that even though she literally has to

wear a cannula all the time

and drag around an oxygen tank so that she

can even breathe

at least she can still somehow have sex right

and there’s no bruises in the morning

because that wouldn’t be realistic to

someone suffering from cancer right

 

This is where you nod along

and try not to think of the

people you know that have had cancer

two of which have died

and just get through the book

because who are you to let the

cute little pastel blue packet of tissues

that come with the book

go to waste huh

 

ACT 3:

Well god

big kahuna in the sky that you are

you see mam sir holy mother and father

I have never harmed a book before

except in that I dog-ear the pages

I wanted to burn these two books so bad

that it almost physically hurt

like going to the funeral of a good friend

and I saw red I was so angry

and it hurt so much

 

Well god you see

I have a proposition for you

okay and it’s a good one

 

Well god you see

I’ll go out and buy these two books

The Fault In Our Stars

and 13 Reasons Why

and I’ll build a great big funeral pyre

and burn them into the ground

okay and then you take those ashes

they’re all for you

take them

and give me back my friends 

  
  



	2. This Motherfucker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is about a guy in my Creative Writing, and Psychology classes, that I attempted to befriend last year because he was friends with someone I'd fallen deep into friend-love with. And he was/is literally the worst. He is such a dick, and thinks he knows everything about everything. The last straw, though, was when he outed me as a "transvestite" to one of his furry friends. So, of course that was a really shitty thing to do, and I tried to patiently explain to the guy that I was not a transvestite, that there was a pretty clear difference between being transgender and being a transvestite, but he just wouldn't listen. And then, get this, he came back a week later telling me that he was going to be this character, that's a transgender female, for Halloween. And he literally didn't see what the problem was with that, that he a cisgender male, was going to be an MtF character and treat transgender people like a costume. He also misgendered me all the time and then used his autism as an excuse for it. Like, no. I cannot wait until this year ends and I never have to see him again. jesus christ. Being a transphobe isn't cool, ya'll.

i see him  
yes i do  
and i can hear his voice from where i sit  
he is right in front of me  
but i know he does not see me as i am  
but for that all he had was pathetic excuses  
using his supposed mental impairment  
to explain away the fact that he always  
called me a girl  
and then he outed me incorrectly as a fucking transvestite  
like shit  
  
i see him  
yes i do  
he has a girl sitting across from him  
and he’s talking at her  
no not to her  
but in that tone of voice that he has  
perfected where you feel like a child  
being scolded and this must be how matilda felt  
and i paraphrase:  
“i’m big, you’re small  
i’m right, you’re wrong  
i’m smart, you’re dumb”  
  
i see him  
yes i do  
and he is not charming  
and he is not attractive  
and he is not funny  
and he is not nice  
and he is not intelligent  
and he is not a good person  
though he certainly thinks he is  
  
i see him  
yes i do  
and just the sound of his voice makes me sick  
because this man  
that acts like a boy  
with the way he proudly declares that he  
is dedicated and committed to making fun of others  
and 18 years old that he is  
does not seem to understand why that is  
not an okay or funny thing to say  
  
i see him  
yes i do  
his tone grates on my eardrums  
and he makes two of my favorite classes  
a thing that curdles anxiety in my guts  
because he is so rude and loud and never shuts up  
and it hurts my head  
it hurts my head  
why can’t he just shut up


	3. Three Words

there are three words

on the tip of your tongue

waiting to be grouped into

whatever you want them to be

and they can mean anything

they can heal

they can maim

they can kill

because words scar just like knives

 

“i love you”

and god did you ever

his eyes that shone with kindness and light

her lips that were always so soft

the first time you kissed a boy

and you held her hand in the mall

not caring who saw you

you have so much love to give

and that makes the past tense

hurt even more

 

“i’m right here”

and you were

and so were they

when the nightmares got really bad

so bad that they bled over into the day

and seeing great black wings bursting out of

someone's back

sends you reaching out for a hand to hold

something to ground you

because it’s not real

and you’re not crazy

 

“i need you”

and you always have been selfish

not wanting to be in a world where they

aren’t a text message, a call, or a letter away

because they’ve always been there

even when you hardly were yourself

and you need them

you do

and you probably always will

and that is not a bad thing

 

“i’m so sorry”

and those three words 

are said with tears in your eyes

snot dripping from your nose

and it does not matter why

you are saying sorry

be it because of self-infliction

or otherwise

because you’ve hurt them

but you just don’t want them to go

 

“please don’t go”

and these words are said

in so many contexts and settings

like reaching out from the bed

and grabbing onto them

because sleeping alone is too quiet

or you run after them

leaving food and drinks to cool

because what good is food

and sleep and drink

if you’ve gotta go it alone

 

“i love you”

and aren’t those the most

important words that you will ever say

to her and him and them

because they will linger

in the best and worst ways

through years and cities and states

they never go away

because baring your heart and soul

to another person

another being

like that is both the greatest sacrifice

and greatest thing you will ever do

 

“you’ll be okay”

and a parting gift for you

dear reader and viewer of this work

because even though those three

words do sound cliche

they are the most true things

that have ever been spoken

because you will heal

wounds will scar over

sleepless nights will stop adding up

and you will be so happy to be alive

you’ll be okay

i know it 


	4. so much more than this

i could tell you you’re beautiful

hell, i have before

a lot of times

and you still don’t believe me

and i don’t know why

 

but that’s a lie

i know exactly why

because i used to think

i was ugly too

 

i was an ugly girl

with glasses and nobody

noticed me until i starved myself

down to a double zero because

they all kept bullying me for being fat

 

and now i’m an ugly boy

but that’s okay

because even dead trees have the

ability to nurture beautiful

life out of their stumps

 

so no, i will not tell you

that you are beautiful because that

word is used so much and has so many

different definitions of what it is

and isn’t that who is to say what

it really even means anymore

 

because to me

you are so much more than a pretty face

and kind words

 

you are the sunrise after a bad night

where i thought i would die

before the sun rose above the tree line again

 

you are the rain after

a scorching hot day that makes it too

hot to wear my binder

 

you are the forgiveness

after i tried to leave

and still you stayed

even when i kept on

trying to go

 

you are the food

that i am still learning not to

be ashamed about eating and enjoying

because weight is just a shitty social

construct like so many other things

 

you are the calm voice

and steady hands

holding my own shaking ones

when you bring me back

from my anxiety attacks

and promise me it will be okay

 

you are there

you are here

you are

you are

so much more than beautiful

 

you are my friend

my confidant

the love blossoming behind my ribs

the scars that wounds become

the pain and happiness and tears

 

you are so much more 

than you think you are


	5. pansy boy

you say “man up”

like that is not what i am doing

because i am preparing to mourn

breast tissue that i never wanted

and i am going to stick a needle in my thigh

my stomach or maybe even my ass cheek

for the rest of my life

to make my outsides look like my insides feel

 

you say “man up”

and that was the last time

the first and the last time

that i cried in front of you

because when i let those tears

that saltiness spill over my lids and down

my cheeks i know that you didn’t see them

you only saw what made me a woman

and in your eyes

crying easily made me less of a man

 

you say “man up”

like that is an easy thing to do

like i know how to do that

like i know how it feels

to forcibly stamp down on

everything that i feel that 

isn’t a hunger

for meat so rare it bleeds

or wanting to open up a woman from

her thighs onward

or wanting a truck with wheels so big

i cannot even climb up into it

but i must need it

all of those things

to compensate for the cock that i do not have

 

you say “man up”

and when i say no

you laugh at me

and tell me i am sensitive and silly

and need to learn to take a joke

but these things that you find humorous

are what got me called a freak in middle school

to the point where i took a blade to my skin

for six years because i was always

too much of a boy to be a girl

and too much of a girl to be a boy

and my haircut makes me look like a lesbian

and wanting to wear skirts makes me a girl

and for some reason you seem to think

that it is you and your opinion that

has the ability and the power and the right

to dictate who i am as a person

 

so when you say to me “man up”

i want you to look not at my breasts

or picture what you assume is in my pants

look me in the eye dammit

because i want you to see how much your

words hurt and you will watch as i cry

because being told that for so long

is what those words make me want to do

you make me want to cry

your trying to push me into a box

that makes me easier to define

erases who i am as a person

 

so when you say to me “man up”

just go ahead and assume that my answer

will be no

because i see no shame

in liking skirts

in liking the color pink

in crying easily

in gesticulating when i talk

because there is no shame 

there is no shame

in being soft

in being gentle

in being a fucking pansy

because now i wear that label with pride

and it no longer hurts

because i am comfortable in myself

because there is no shame

there is no shame in being me

and i am done apologizing 

 


	6. don't kneel/won't kneel

is my body a temple

a church

a cathedral

a shrine?

 

that may be the case

but i am the god

that it was built for

 

and more often than not

my fingers are knives

and when i spit

it comes out as acid

 

the walls are melting

the pews are burning

everything is splintered wood

and broken bone

 

because as a god

i am cruel 

i am vindictive

i am capricious

my self-destruction is on a global scale

 

and there is nothing beautiful

about this mess that 

this so called temple is

 

because i am trying to make

the scars on my arms into

railroad tracks that will take me

far away from this place

i do not want this anymore

 

and it is easier to

kneel when your kneecaps

have been shattered

but i do not believe in myself

enough to do that

 

and if my body truly is

a temple

a church

a cathedral

a shrine

it went up in flames years ago

 


	7. absentee

new place

new home

not so new city

but newly living there

and riding city busses

in the dark

and the near

and the dusk

makes for new feelings

of trepidation

of fear

of anxiety

of nakedness without 

someone there beside

 

so son

he asked father for a knife

not to use on anyone

and the father asked if the son

would use it on himself

 

and the

son looked down

bare arms on desktop

six years of hurting himself

and he promised that no

he would not use the knife

on himself 

not then or ever again

 

the knife

given then was a truly beautiful

thing with all that blade

and for an instant the old need

to make bleed flooded

the son like water through a ravine

long since gone to cracked mud

 

but the

son refrained from that

because cracked mud can

surely be beautiful too

and even dead things can

bring forth life

from what they used to be

 

but then

time passed as it so often

does in seconds and minutes

and days and weeks

and months and then

the father and the son

were not under the same roof

 

and then

came the days and weeks

and finally months of silence

 

but that

knife oh the knife it stayed

not against flesh because that was

one promise that would no longer be broken

but instead inside of zipper shoulder bag pockets

and tucked under couch cushions and shoved

to the back of piles on top of a new desk

 

and time

how it continued to pass

until the son had graduated 

and there was no father 

to watch him as he walked down

that aisle and to the row of seats

all proud and head held high

in his black gown that

officially marked the son

as being a male

 

and time

how it continued to pass

until the son stopped answering

the father’s phone calls

and who can blame the son

because the child should not have to

continuously hold together 

that lame excuse for

a father and son relationship

 

and time

it is still passing

and the son well he still has

that knife in his life

constantly moving around places

in his room that is not just a corner

of the living room and a desk and a bed

because he has all those things now

but the father is not in his life

 

and knives

and tattoos even gifted

from father to son

are not the same as having

a father that actually wants you


	8. 7 to 16

  1. i dream of breaking off needles in my thigh
  2. twelve years old was the first time that i wanted to die
  3. maybe the needles are a way of making that feeling stay away
  4. because there is something inside of me that needs to get out
  5. i refuse to die inside of myself
  6. and i already tried cutting it out
  7. **and i already tried taking so many pills that i would sleep forever**
  8. and i already put so many notes into so many words
  9. but that’s all just scars and potentially messed up organs now
  10. though much of my writing still reads like a goodbye
  11. but old habits die hard
  12. and sometimes the only reason i don’t go back is because of the dates on my arm
  13. and the ink is not a way of mutilating myself
  14. it’s a way to cover up my past mistakes
  15. because even though the scars have faded i know they’re there
  16. **and i am ready to have new scars that do not signify pain**
  17. but a way of finding my true self under all of that 




	9. from the past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How's that for some early morning angst, huh? I would just like to clarify that I do not, in fact, experience auditory and visual hallucinations anymore. Those up and left after my mother kicked me out. So, I guess she really did me a favor with that. But, yeah. That stuff doesn't happen anymore. It's just so much introspection into the past.

“i’ve had hallucinations like that”

no really

and i don’t even need drugs to do it

my brain used to give me all

that nightmare shit for free

 

but when it happens all the time

everyday is like a bad trip

and it just keeps getting worse

and it left dark circles under my eyes

and shaking hands

and so many cuts on my arm

 

because there is nothing poetic

about watching great black and bony

wings rip themselves out of someone's back

and you swear that it is snowing inside

since the cold flakes feel so real

and the wall inhales and exhales

against your back as you slide down it

to the floor

 

and it’s really fucking hard

to find a boy or a girl

that will save you from yourself

when you don’t even know if the

chair that you’re sitting in is real

 

and it’s really fucking hard

to be saved by someone when that

isn’t realistic in the slightest

and hollywood knows that as well

because mental illness is not a thing

that can be cured by sappy poems

and chocolate and being told

that you are beautiful

 

because i was not beautiful

i was chewing holes into 

the insides of my cheeks

and worrying bloody grooves into

my lips and dried blood

stuck to all the sleeves of my shirts

and so many sleepless nights

because even with my eyes closed

i still saw every horrible thing

 

and there was no one to save me

because when i told my mother

between sobbing and shaking so much

that my teeth chattered she looked right at me

and told me that i just had an overactive imagination

 

and that was when the question of

if i knew that the things i saw weren’t real

became so many other moot points

because crazy is as crazy does

and the things i saw

the things i saw

put so many scars on my arms

because blood is real

and if it bleeds it has to be real

it just has to be

 


	10. weakling

you are more threatened by

my existence than you give yourself

credit for

 

and honestly that just baffles me

because i have a hard time killing spiders

and loud noises make me jump

 

but you don’t care about that

you just care about what you think

is in my pants

and the fact that the gender that is on

my birth certificate is different than

what i was assigned at birth

and my name is different too

 

but you don’t even care why

and even if you do

it is likely just a farce to give you

more reasons that in your mind

qualify me as a freak and a monster

and a horrible person that is willingly

mutilating the body that god gave me

 

well god has never had ears for me

and i do pray 

i promise that i do

and never mind that it’s usually swearing

but if there really was a god

i like to think that he wouldn’t have stuck me

in a body that i have spent more time

wanting to destroy than actually living in

 

and i still don’t know

what about that

threatens you in any way

but you sure do feel threatened enough

to kill my brothers and sisters

with guns and knives and

your cruel words 

over and over again

 

and not all of us are old

though 20 in the life of a trans person

could be considered old

since the chances of being murdered

jump a whopping 1% 

to transgender individuals having a 

1 in 12 chance of being murdered

and a 1 in 8 chance if they are a trans

person of color

 

and a good number of those people

are children and younger than

your sister or brother

who may be 14 or 12

there are so many deaths

every year

and the only reason that is given

is they were transgender

they were everything but white

and cisgender and heterosexual

 

so again i will ask

what about my existence makes you feel

so threatened that you think it is okay

to kill me for no other reason than

my daring to live as a male

instead of dying as a woman

 


	11. liar liar

parents tell many lies to their children

for example:

there is no monster under your bed

there are no monsters in your closet

jaws can’t get to you through the shower drain

i’ll love you no matter what

 

cynical huh?

yeah yeah i know

i gotta work on that

but then my writing would be so boring

 

so those other lies

they don’t really mean much 

in the grand scheme of things

and there other ones for sure

like heaven and hell being real

and you go to hell for being  _ other _

and not for the things that you do

to yourself and others

 

but that last one

is what really messes kids up

and young adults

and suddenly you’re twenty five and

flinching at the parent’s voice

raised at their child to almost

a yell and it is carrying

from five grocery aisles over

and asking yourself just what the hell happened

to get you where you are today

 

my mom told me that last lie

and i believed her

but not enough to tell her that i 

was a lesbian until i had told

what few friends i had at school

and even our dog

 

and i didn’t tell her at home either

because i wasn’t an idiot

and could smell the alcohol on her breath

when she picked me up from school

 

so i told her over appetizers

and then maybe a burger at

a restaurant that charged maybe

fifteen bucks for a slice of cake

and she told me back that she

would love and accept me no matter what

 

and that night

i almost told her that i had felt different

like a freak

like a monster

like i was broken

_ like a boy _

since i was seven years old

 

but looking back now

from a different gender and sexuality

with scars to prove that where i came from

no child should have to go through that

i am so glad that i didn’t tell her

anything more than that i was a lesbian

 

because that next morning

she broke the promise that she

had been making since i was

a baby and then a child

that she would love me

that she would accept me

no matter what

 

and there was fresh alcohol

on her breath and weed

stink sewed into the fabric

of her clothes as she yelled

at me that i wasn’t being authentic

to myself and that i wasn’t being

my real self and that 

_ i just hadn’t met the right boy yet _

 

i stopped telling my mother things

like how i felt wrong in my sexuality

like how i wanted to die

when i started to bleed each month

like how i went to bed with blood

stained onto my wrists

like how i starved myself down

so she would maybe love me again

 

maybe that’s why 

when i finally found the word

for what i was at sixteen years old

i told my blog

and the friend’s family i wished was mine

and the dog again

before i told my mother

that i wasn’t really a girl

 

and only then did she accept that

i had been a lesbian for the past

three years as a way to throw that

back in my face

because i couldn’t be a boy

if i was a gay woman

and i couldn’t be a boy

if i had no bottom dysphoria

and i showed no signs of it

as a child

but she was just too drunk

and stoned and absent to notice

 

and she tried to tell me that lie again

how she would love me

how she would accept me

no matter what

but that was followed by how she

still saw me as her daughter

and that was the first time

surprisingly enough

that i thought about slitting my throat

 

so parents lie to you

they lie about a lot of things

like how they will never die

the things you see aren’t real

the voices you hear aren’t real

you aren’t a monster for being you

 

so parents lie to you

they lie about a lot of things

like how they say:

i’ll love you no matter what

i’ll love you no matter what

i’ll love you no matter what

 

_ i’ll love you no matter what _

 


	12. drunk texts, unsent

#1 

holy shit, i am really drunk

accidentally slammed three beers

pretending that the neck of the bottle

was your lips

 

#2

part of me wanted to text you

staring up into the sky

praying that the stars would swallow me

and my fingers itched to type out

so many things that i would regret 

in the morning

 

#3

and i imagined telling you

confessions of how i felt

and i imagined that little cursor

blinking back at me like so much

apathy and words swallowed

over and again

 

#4

and i have kissed

my fair share of people

with lips male and female

with faces smooth and some scruff

or a full beard that i envied

but girls have the softest lips

always have

 

#5

i wondered what it would be like

to kiss you then

holding your body to mine

hoping you would forgive the splits

in my lip that anxiety helped me put there

 

#6

a good describing word for how

i felt then with three beers and good food

making its home in my belly

would be “blissed”

i was blissed out on booze and food

and my pining for you

 

#7

i am sober now

woke up earlier than i would have liked

but then again i fell asleep at 10:30pm

 

#8

and this thing i feel

it’s like a combination of regret

and disappointment in myself

for not just telling you how i feel

and for needing liquid courage

to get myself to that plateau

of spilling my guts or backing away

 

#9

and i have forgotten

what my favorite drink tastes like again

in favor of the words to describe

how kissing you for the first time

would surely feel

 

#10

and i have never felt fireworks 

when kissing someone before

even the girl i thought i was gonna marry

and i’m not so young now

and a little bit more cynical

but i wanna feel those fireworks with you

and i still haven’t texted you

and i don’t know if i will

and i don’t know if i should

and i am sorry for being like this


	13. always been

born a host in a body

that was not mine

curled up against small ribs

nestled between vertebrae

so invisible but still there

still real

 

teeth ground down into

a snarl in the first feeling of anger

at the name and gender

slapped onto this new body

a body whose tongue is too

floppy and unlearned to protest

 

wrapping tighter around new body parts

blossoming like bruises after

that initial contact of skin on skin

bursting at the seams of this vessel

that can only cry out

wrong wrong wrong

 

because i have always been here

bursting into full-fledged existence 

at the tender age of seven

when my girl-body still lacked the

words to say that this body is not mine

and being called a girl makes

my guts curdle 

makes me want to peel off my skin

 

and here i am now

just like i have always been

making my home in a body

that was meant to hold something else

a daughter

a sister

a neice

a granddaughter

and maybe a mother

 

but this cage of flesh and bone

it will not hold another body

because in a way i have already birthed

myself up out of the years of pain

and confusion

 

because i have always been

i have always been

i have always been

i have


	14. counting by even numbers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify, I no longer live with my mother. But not because she sexually assaulted me; because she kicked me out twice. She also doesn't remember the assault, because she was intoxicated off a mixture of alcohol and weed at the time. I've actually kind of forgiven her for it, I guess. I mean, it's something that I'm never going to forget, but I have moved passed it. I am also never going to tell her what she did, because she literally denies the eleven years of abuse she inflicted upon me. Anyway, I am safe and okay and have a way healthier relationship with my mother than I ever did when I was living with her. Kinda sucks that that's what it took for her to finally be a parent, but one parent is better than two that are abusive assholes, yanno. So, really, I am just venting here, nothing more. I'm alright. I'm okay.

there’s this thing i have

a way to cope with the

anxiety that even though i am

almost done with therapy

for as long as i like

is still a constant thing

 

you see, i count

by even numbers

maybe because ending

on an odd number

makes my breath puff

out before leaving my lungs

and my head starts to spin

 

i count evenly 

on each inhale and exhale

the number of scars on my arm

the years i spent putting those scars there

the times my mother told me she never wanted kids

and how long it took me to get over that

before she went and said it again

 

and i count the times that

my mother has said sorry

though that takes less than all

five fingers on one hand

because the things that she has

not apologized for

still keep me up at night

  
like sending me to school

with fresh bruises in the shape

of her fingers wrapping around my upper arms

like chasing me up to my room and cornering me

and shaking me with spit landing on my face

from how much and how loud she was screaming

like trapping me up against the corner

and pressing her breasts up against my back

and grinding up against me 

until i said “enough”

and she replied in swears and blaming me

like her basically sexually assaulting me was

somehow my fault

 

and when i told the counselor

at my school what had happened

after my friends agreed i should go

that led to my telling a cop through

sobs and so many tears what my mother

had done how she had used me

i counted the number of pills i had taken

two years prior

in an attempt to take my own life

and felt a feeling like i should have known

that forty wasn’t going to be enough


	15. hold (me) tight

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kE8YLs-_SR8>

#1 

i remember being a little girl

and holding my friend's hand

who was also a girl

and nobody even gave it a second thought

 

because the kissing cheeks and

lips but only on a dare

were just us being kids

 

and even when i wanted

to hold the pretty girl’s hand

who sat next to me on the bus

it wasn’t a big deal

because we were

just friends

just kids

 

#2

i remember being scared

because i wanted to marry

my girl friends

and live in a big house

with dogs and window seats

 

but still this wasn’t 

a big deal or something to make

a fuss about

because i was still just a kid

 

nevermind the fact that

i was 12 and then 13

and i had kissed my first girlfriend

in the middle of the street

on a halloween night

 

and when the lady answered 

the door she smiled when she

saw us holding hands

because my costume made

me look like a boy

 

and the candy sank like a rock

into my guts while my heart

made its home in my mouth

and when my girlfriend asked

me to come and cuddle with her

early that next morning

i rolled over and pretended to still be 

sleeping

 

#3

i remember being a lesbian

meeting my girlfriend

at the mall

and she took my hand immediately 

and told me that she wasn’t going

to be scared of doing that in public

 

and i fell in love with her

the first time i heard her voice

over the phone and through

the grainy webcam on my crappy laptop

and every time her name popped up

on my phone screen

i loved her even more

 

#4

i remember being a high school freshman

being called a dyke

and a lesbo

and a faggot

because of my haircut

and the way that i dressed

 

and when my bestfriend left

because of the bullying

i felt so alone and afraid

 

because i was surrounded 

by couples that were socially acceptable

since they were a boy and a girl

and i hated their ability

to hold hands and kiss in public without

being bullied

being beaten up

being kicked out by their parents

and being killed

 

#5

i remember the first crush 

i had on a boy as a boy myself

and it was exhilarating and terrifying

because i was social suicide

being queer and transgender

 

nevermind that i could write poetry

or sew buttons onto pants

or paint

or draw

or cook

or bake

or anything else

 

because my liking boys

and girls and people who

were both or neither or somewhere in-between

wasn’t cute anymore

since i was grown up

 

it made me a target

a big red X painted on my back

and to some it made me less than human

because loving who i did

made me a sinner

 

#6

i remember holding my boyfriend's hand

at school and how ashamed i felt 

because of my palms sweating so much

and how afraid i felt

 

but i also remember how freeing it was

and how i almost cried the first time

he kissed me on the cheek

 

and i know my girl-self

who was so afraid and angry and sad

would be proud of me

because i hold nothing back now

and i don’t let that fear show

because loving who i love

and holding the hands of boys or girls

or people that don’t conform to either one

does not make me bad

 

it makes me brave

it makes you brave

it makes  _ us _ brave 

  
  



	16. god as a woman

you willingly subscribe  
to the belief of a god that  
encourages you in  
and then rewards you for  
condemning those that  
are seen as other  
or different than yourself

but that is not what  
the true meaning of this  
so called good book  
is calling upon you to do

but still you do  
picketing funerals of gay people  
wishing death upon those  
that are of different abilities and minds  
and willfully supporting conversion therapy  
as if there is enough electricity in this world  
to make me stop loving men and women

and this god  
this vision of a man  
with white skin and long brown hair  
but not enough length to make him seem feminine  
with his flat stomach and the  
fabricated willingness to absolve  
us of all our sins  
by, ironically enough, being murdered  
he still does not scare me

no, what scares me  
is what you do in the name of your god  
what you believe him to be saying  
that because i am a trans man  
because i am queer  
because i tried to kill myself  
i am going to hell

but doing this  
using your god  
a man proven time and again  
to be of middle eastern descent  
with an unwed virgin mother  
and two fathers  
as an excuse to incite violence  
upon others  
how does that not make you  
ask yourself if this is what  
he really would have wanted?

but when you can  
take this person and raise them upon  
a pedestal that forgives you of your hate  
what does it matter  
what they really said  
what they really believed  
and that they loved all equally?

this probably has something to do  
with why i like to see jesus as a woman  
sometimes a trans woman  
but mostly because women are  
of a gentler human variety  
a nurturing sort  
inhabiting the universal image  
of a mother

and i know that this  
god, maybe the one that  
i pray to when i don’t know  
what else to do  
i know that she loves me  
despite everything i have done  
to others and to myself  
she loves me  
she loves me  
she loves me


	17. "love yourself first" my foot

“to love another

you must first love yourself

fore if you do not love yourself

you can not truly love

anyone else” 

what a bunch of crap

 

the list of things

that i hate about myself

it is far bigger than the things

that i like about myself

 

i hate my hands

with the chewed-down fingernails

and the chronic tremors from anxiety

and so many different cocktails of medication

that has grown too big to

swallow dry anymore

 

i hate my mental illness

the auditory and visual hallucinations

that used to plague me constantly

and the depression

the anxiety

the insomnia

the fuckin PTSD

 

i hate that i cut myself

for six years

and the urges still overwhelm

me more than is probably healthy

 

sometimes i hate that i failed

when trying to kill myself

four years ago

 

i am a freak in every 

sense of the word

but that doesn’t bother me as much

as it used to

because all of my heroes are freaks too

and i still have so much love to give

 

because i grew up hating myself

raised between two abusive households

where it was made obvious that i

was not wanted by either parent

so i took that love that i was unable

to feel for myself and threw

it out into the world

for those that needed it more than me

 

i have so much love to give

because that is a terrible thing

to let go to waste

and i have more than enough

to go around

 

and i hate myself more days

than i love myself

but by giving that gift to others

before myself i think

and i know

that i am slowly learning how to

love myself again

and forgetting what it has felt like

to hate myself since i was

seven years old

 

so don’t you dare tell me

that i can’t love others until

i love myself

because that isn’t enough of

a reason to keep moving forward

and loving others first is how i

pick up the jagged edges

and smooth them down into something

that is soft once again 

  
  



	18. almost

that was gonna be me

ya know?

well it almost was

but sometimes 

i feel like it really should have been

if only i had tried hard enough

 

but wouldn’t you know

trazodone is actually really

hard to overdose on

so it seems safe to conclude

that when the paramedic told me

i was lucky i had woken up

he was lying 

 

the bottom line is though

that i thought i was ready

to be that person who so

many others knew

went to school with

grew up with

but then they all would have

continued to age

while i became part of the earth again

 

and while i was certainly

gone for those few hours

before i woke up

soaked in sweat

tangled in my sheets and 

the realization that i had failed

my heart was still beating

and when i was pulled under again

fear gripped me tighter than

my depression and

suicidal urges ever did

 

because i didn’t want to die

i was only sixteen years old

my sister was in the room

right next to mine

and i wondered what that would

have done to her

if she had found me

and that makes me hate myself

just that much more

 

but failing that

being an almost statistic

waking up

and voluntarily being admitted

into the psychiatric ward

it made me a survivor

it meant that i wanted to live

and i do

i really do

 

but there are so many

other scars besides the one

on my skin and possibly some

internal organs

that run like deep grooves

inside of my psyche

and i sometimes wonder

why people that want to die

that do kill themselves

are treated like they did not

want to live

when they wanted to live

the most of all

 

why does wanting to 

have the pain stop

make them bad people?

 


	19. no beauty/no romance

1\. no beauty  
  
was it beautiful?  
like sitting at a desk  
riddled with indents from   
keeping the scissors away from skin  
rocking back and forth  
with only one thing circling  
through an addled mind  
the overwhelming urge to die  
feeling ready to write that final  
chapter on a life barely lived  
  
was it beautiful?  
forty pills that seemed like  
enough at the time  
choked down with soda water  
and so many built up tears  
feeling the rot of depression  
absorbing the medicine that was  
supposed to make things better  
goddammit  
  
was it beautiful?  
regretting waking up hours later  
younger sibling in the next room  
noticing the stumble  
the swearing that came from  
feeling organs clench and shatter  
but nothing coming up  
  
was it beautiful?  
admitting to taking so many pills  
tongue feeling shredded by the words  
being asked to stay awake  
but only feeling so much anger  
at having failed  
at waking up again  
at still being alive  
  
was it beautiful?   
three psych wards  
every time a voluntary check in  
unable to stay safe  
healing scars  
bashing limbs against every hard surface  
ripping open old wounds  
both inside and out  
there is nothing beautiful   
in self destruction   
  
2\. no romance  
  
was it romantic?  
hospital beds and an iv   
in the back of a shaking hand  
monitored bathroom breaks  
too many to count while a body  
too young to feel so old  
purged itself of so many toxins  
  
was it romantic?  
fingernails chewed down to nothing  
ragged cuticles  
raw and bloody knuckles  
because those hurt just a little bit less  
than constantly pulling open  
scabbed over splits in  
gnawed on lips  
  
was it romantic?  
looking for love to give to others  
not leaving enough behind to keep  
not caring about that  
too busy wanting to go home  
please fix this  
make the hurt go away  
make everything shiny and new again  
  
was it romantic?  
unable to find respite  
from the mental onslaught  
in the unmarred arms of another  
because illness and depression  
do not care about  
kissing scars to heal them  
or boxes of chocolate  
or roses  
or whispered “i love you”s  
because life is not a  
teen romance novel  
  
was it romantic?  
wanting to die  
even while sitting next to  
that person that made things  
not hurt so bad  
and feeling guilty about fresh cuts  
fresh bruises  
burn marks that could be explained  
away as accidents  
  
was it romantic?  
mass media certainly seems to think so  
here’s looking at you  
john green and jay asher  
because why should people have  
struggles if they can’t be candy-coated  
and wrapped up in neat little bows  
with complementary  
packets of tissues on the side  
  
was it romantic?  
smelling of blood  
and sweat from so many nightmares and terrors  
trembling and shaking  
racked by guilt and anxiety  
waiting for an ulcer  
waiting for something to happen  
to make it seem worthwhile  
because in mental illness and trauma   
there is no prince  
no princess  
no damsel in distress  
no disney movie happy ending   
there is no romance  
in wanting   
to constantly die


	20. steps to survival

get through the day

just one day at a time

and if that seems like too much

too all at once

all loud and in your face

go by seconds

and then minutes

and then hours

make the in and out of

air in your lungs

a manageable thing

 

but there is no

clear map when it comes

to survival

because that looks different

for everybody

and a numbered list

could fill all the blank pages

but won’t you think of the trees

 

and when my depression

grabbed me by the throat

my feet left the ground

as the blueprints left my hands

the plan that i had planned

all neat and laid out

but an addled mind does not

care about that

because it is too busy screaming

and smacking itself against the floor

 

and sometimes survival looks

like staying up until it is

almost morning again

so you can rock back and forth

in a nest of your blankets

soaked in tears and sweat

sobbing till the line between

heaving breaths and puking

becomes more than blurred

because how do you tell

your family and friends

that you want to die

because it all hurts so much

 

and sometimes survival looks

like eyes sunken and glazed

shaking hands around a mug

of tea or coffee

with alcohol optional

but not much can mask the

acidic taste of panic

that comes with your heart

continuing to hammer against

your ribs

 

and sometimes survival

is all smiles

and laughing until you cry

and sloppy kisses

and laying in the middle of a road

on a dead end street with

the person you love most

and your hands are almost

touching and they are so

beautiful and you are alive

and it feels so good

and you are alive

and you are alive

and you are alive

and you are past the survival

and you are LIVING

 


	21. a list of maybe's

“did you wish you

would have successfully

committed suicide?”

 

you can’t ask me that

because it is one

hell of a loaded question

and i’ll spend all this time

agonizing over what answer

will make you worry the least

because and dammit anyhow

i just don’t know

 

it’s just one thing in

a long laundry list of

maybe’s that i took

from therapist to therapist

and psych ward to psych ward

trying to find a definitive answer

on why i was depressed

why i was afraid to sleep at night

why i couldn’t just be happy

why i wanted to die

just why why why

 

and i don’t know

because my whole life

felt like preparations in order

to die younger than i should have

but that stubborn cursor just

kept on blinking away

saying that my story wasn’t over

 

but the thing is

that depression has no face

because there were good days

where i wasn’t miserable

but then the nights were hell

and i could never cut deep enough

to find the infection

that made me this way

 

because even now

almost 20 and terrified

over a life that still

sometimes feels like it should

have ended four years ago

i am still depressed

 

under the genuine smiling

and laughing where i don’t care

if my crooked teeth show

my mental illness is still there

 

and i am riddled

with anxiety

and guilt

and regret

though i still cannot

say for certain if that guilt

extends to the fact that i

failed to take my own life

because i just do not know

 

it’s a long list of maybes

more than the scars littering

my left arm

or the days that i spent

bruising my wrist on

any sharp corner i could

because i can’t say “yes”

and i can’t say “no”

without it feeling like a lie

 

“did you wish you

would have successfully

committed suicide?”

i don’t know

yes 

no

maybe

maybe

maybe

  
  
  



	22. stimmy

Stimming/Self-stimulation: most common in individuals on the autism spectrum, but also done by those with anxiety, stimming (stim for short) is the act of engaging in repetitive motions--such as rocking, flapping hands, making noises, and touching or chewing on things--as a way to express emotions or self-soothe. 

 

when anxiety has me ensnared 

in its clawed and crooked grip

sunk deep into my bones

my spine becomes a rocking chair

pretzel-ing itself into a shape

that knows how to rid this body

of the gritted teeth and shaking hands

and tears that are a near-constant

and burning promise

 

and this movement

the motion of moving back and forth

planted firmly on mattress

or couch 

or carpet

or hardwood floor

it grounds me and soothes the ache

of a mind in turmoil 

in a way that unzipping 

my flesh never did

 

but the motion that is heavily

put into practice while standing

is a noticeable thing

that is too calculated and controlled

to be played off as

intoxication or any other substance

to quite the roiling of my thoughts

 

and when my little sister

looks at me next to her

with fluttering hands and adding new

indents of my teeth into my bottom lip

and asks me why i am rocking

i do not know how to explain the

motion to her in a way that she will

understand and so i make myself stop

by forcing the movement into my leg

 

and many summers ago

when i sat on the mattress in

the livingroom of my father’s apartment

that was also my bedroom

and began to rock back and forth

to quell the rising tide of anxiety

from the anger in his eyes and voice

and he snapped at me to

“stop being such an aspie homo”

my only response was to

rock faster and bite back the

tears that threatened to

drown the both of us 


	23. Always You

I say your name

and my heart becomes 

a little kid

pulling me towards the

candy aisle with both hands

ignoring my protests

of no time

no money

and it’s been too long

since I last saw a dentist

so who knows if my teeth

could handle your sweetness

 

I say your name

and we’re just two

kids in love again

stopping in the middle

of an empty street

to kiss open mouthed

like you are an oxygen tank

and I’m at the bottom

of the deepest ocean

 

I say your name

and I’m looking at 

engagement rings

while calculating costs

and telling the clerk

behind the counter 

that I plan to marry you

 

I say your name

and it is like water

after a hundred year drought

sweet and light

on my tongue

 

I say your name

I say your name

I say your name

and it’s like coming home 


	24. what father?

My father once said to me,

“good luck, kid”

 

there was malice

in his voice,

there were tears

in my eyes

 

and I didn’t understand

why we were fighting,

but this was a dance

I knew the steps to

like I knew my father’s anger

was a poison that had been

seeped into my very bones

 

even then,

his anger was the most

consistent thing he ever

gave to me,

and a broken part of me

craved it, because at least

then he was paying attention

to me

 

and my father,

he never knew how to

be a father,

moving an hours long train

ride away and wondering

why I was afraid to stay

with him, this man

that I hardly knew

and only ever saw 

when I looked in the

mirror

 

and I can’t remember

when my father stopped

being my hero,

when I stopped wanting

to be like him,

when protector became tormenter,

but it’s been long enough

to make me fearful

and resentful of this man,

whose face and mannerisms

I so happen to share

 

and and and

my father once said to me,

“good luck, kid,”

and I almost said back to him,

“I don’t need good luck,

I just need a father”

 

but I don’t think that’s

true anymore, and if

there’s one thing my father

taught me,

I should never tell a lie


	25. Little Lost Love

Your boots are by the door,

my love. In hopes you will pick them up again.

 

I think of your feet, so small.

Toes curled up against holey socks, so cold.

 

We could have been a city of two, my love. 

But you lost your passport somewhere along the way.

 

Sometimes it feels like your boots are

all I have left of you. Worn leather, whispered promises.

 

You said we would be forever, in the way

that kids believe that so wholly. But forever is a long time, my love.

 

And I put my boots next to yours, my love.

Tie the laces together like hands holding tight.

 

I brush the cobwebs off your boots, my love.

Head over heels for ten years, hasn’t quit yet.

 

Phone buzzes then, your name on the screen.

The text says you’re back, my heart says you’re coming home. 


	26. oh, sweet memory

this taste is one i know well

the sweet kiss of peach,

swirled pastel pale with cream,

so light on my tongue

pulls me backward in time

 

with one sip,

everything fades away

and i find myself no longer in

this campus bookstore,

running on too little sleep

and almost too much to do

 

a blink of sleepy eyes, a deep yawn

and i am basking in the smells

of roasting coffee beans,

rainbow display of donuts,

the warmth of familiarity offered

by this place that has not existed

since i was in middle school

 

the me now takes a quiet second

to look back at the me then,

just starting to cut my hair short,

hopelessly in love

with this girl,

and angry at the world

 

a voice calls my name,

the one i gave myself,

and i turn in barely concealed excitement,

having mistaken this voice for that

of the girl who made my heart sing

 

what greets me, though,

is my mother, and

she beams at me from behind the

counter of this hole in the wall

coffee shop in welches, oregon,

gestures for me to sit

on a bar stool that spins back

and forth with only

minimal protesting creaks

 

straw scrapes bottom of

plastic cup and a part

of me cries out for

this moment not to end,

being a little kid again,

hands cold from the drink

i am clutching

 

my mother offers me a refill,

but this coffee shop is already

fading out of reality and back to memory

and i miss it bitterly

 

i want that coffee shop back,

with the good food and friends and love

i want that girl to hold my hand again,

make everything feel more whole

 

but my mother still

beams at me when she sees me

standing near the bar

at her work,

and things are alright


	27. edges

there are many things that have not killed me,

and yeah, i guess they made me stronger.

but until those scars became strength,

i cut myself on all those sharp edges

of the shattered thing i had become.

 

and picking up those pieces was

a slow and painful thing that

painted my fingers, 

my palms,

in bright cherry red.

 

i asked myself if it was worth it,

bleeding fingers stuck in my mouth.

just surviving was so exhausting.

how was i ever going to muster

the strength to put myself back

together with duct tape 

and safety pins

and so many disappearing purple

glue sticks?

 

there was a comfort found in this state,

my body found homeostasis in the

barren battlefield of itself.

i told myself i could build a home

among the smoldering remains,

could learn to love the black smoke

that hung over everything i saw.

 

i told myself so many things

while on hands and knees in

hopes of finding who i once was

in the dirt and discarded memories.

 

i told myself i could stay there

if i wanted to,

let all those sharp edges slice

me into ribbons thinner than paper

that could be carried away on the

wind to a place that just didn’t hurt

so damn much. 

 

i told myself that giving up

wouldn’t make me weak,

just so very human.

but a stubborn light inside of me

refused to burn out, like the porch light

left on night after night until

you make it back home.

 

and i clawed my way out of

that wreckage.

and i’ve got the scars to show

for it, the still sleepless nights

and sometimes even worse nightmares.

 

but so many of those sharp edges

have been rounded down into

shapes that fit together more

often than not, slotted into place

to make something stronger than

what and

who and

how i used to be.

 

i just had to survive the healing

process first, because the getting

better is what damn near

killed me. 


	28. think of the children

you ask what is the point

what will this change

what will it do

why are kids walking OUT

when they should be

stepping UP

 

well

in this instance

you need to step

DOWN

 

because you are not

a child in 2018

having to seriously ask yourself

if school is even safe to go to

and if your school could be next

if it could be your classroom

your friend

your teacher

you

you

you

 

as an adult you 

need to step DOWN

because this is not an instance

where your voice needs to

be louder than a child's

or a teenagers who just saw

their friends gunned down

 

because this is the time for

you as an adult to listen

and mean it

don’t just think of a response

or a way to prove that you know better

because if you have not been through it

you have no idea

what it’s like

 

and you as an adult

have had so many opportunities

to listen for so many years

 

but in elementary school 

when three boys chased me

and pulled off my jacket

and knocked me to the ground

and i went to the recess aid

shaking with fear

and sobbing

she told me it was because the

boys liked me

 

but in middle school

when there were so many assemblies

about stomping out bullying

where the students signed their

names on a wooden plank painted white

like that would do anything

and even when i was still so afraid

to go to school that i would

have rather died

where were you to listen to me

to protect me

 

but in high school

when my best friend didn’t

even make it through the first

five months of his freshman year

of high school because he was

so relentlessly bullied

for being gay

where were you

 

where were you every time

that i was called a dyke

a fag

a freak

 

where were you

why weren’t you stepping UP

for me then

when i needed you

to help me

when i was just a scared kid

that needed to be safe in school

 

where were you

every time i needed someone

to listen to me

to step UP for me

to tell me the bullying wasn’t my fault

and i wasn’t alone

WHERE WERE YOU

 

Why are you talking so loud now

making a tidal wave out of 

your voices

like stepping UP is more important

than stepping OUT

right now when they are both needed

 

what gives you the right

to punish a student for

believing

and being right

that their life is more important

than some person’s ability to

buy an assault rifle

and peacefully protesting by

leaving school and not hurting anybody

because if you won’t listen to 

the children then

goddammit

who will

 

how many children

and teenagers

kindergarten to college

have to ask

am i next

am i next

AM I NEXT

before you finally listen

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	29. Discomfort

I do not remember the name of the hospital, only that there was no 13th room.

When I asked one of the nurses why, she told me it was because 13 is unlucky.

The two other psychiatric wards I’ve stayed in also skipped that number, so it must be true.

 

I don’t want to be here.

 

I don’t know where I want to go, but this ward is making my eye twitch.

There are locks on all the bathrooms, and no toilet seats.

The food isn’t terrible, but the calories next to each menu item make me feel fat.

How long have I been here?

 

Everything blends together, and my count of the days feels inaccurate. 

My skin feels too tight.

 

I ask the handsome nurse, who hands me my little paper cup of pills, why he has braces.

He tells me he was in the Navy, and had to take them off for that.

He has a nice smile.

He asks to see if I swallowed my pills, and I stick out my tongue.

 

I don’t want to be here. 


	30. a well written father

if i could  
i would write myself a father  
who was not too tall  
just enough so i could fit my  
head under his chin  
  
and he would always have  
a smile for me  
even after a long day at work  
and the floor is still wet  
from where i mopped  
  
he would hang drawings  
and report cards on the fridge  
and tell me he was proud of me  
even when i hadn’t done anything  
that day except remind  
myself it’s okay to just breathe  
  
he would be an example  
of a father that i could write about  
and make it sound realistic  
because nothing would  
be made up and what  
i imagined a father should  
be and do  
  
i would write him so  
he would want to be my father  
and he wouldn’t hate my  
mother or me  
  
he would be kind  
and never yell at me  
or hit or throws things  
and he would just be there  
  
this father  
i would write him so he  
would have found a way to  
go to my high school graduation  
and tell the people sitting next  
to him that i was his son  
with a smile on his face  
  
but even as a writer  
i’m not that good  
of a liar


	31. store-bought serotonin

i tell you i’ve had a bad day  
my depression whacked me  
upside the head  
and i cried on the bathroom floor  
  
and you share photos  
of a quaint forest path  
saying that is the real cure for depression  
and the pills i take  
are a lifelong addiction because  
if the pills really did work  
then i wouldn’t still be on them  
until your fingers fuckin bleed  
  
as if my mental illness  
is a nasty cold  
that requires antibiotics  
for about a month  
and once i am “better”  
i’ll be okay on my own  
  
you treat my pills bottles  
like a crutch that makes me weak  
like i am a bad person for trying  
to live my life worth living  
a life which just so happens  
to be medicated  
  
and that comes from such  
a place of privilege  
you and your stupid pictures  
of forest paths that have nothing  
to do with depression   
and anxiety  
and screaming hallucinations  
that have left me   
sobbing on the floor  
making myself bleed until  
i can tell what’s real again  
  
my mental illness is a chronic thing  
even when i am stable  
i will never stop being mentally ill  
just because i have more good days  
than bad doesn’t mean i can cold-turkey  
the very things that  
keep me functioning  
without losing my mind  
  
and when i did try  
to go off the meds in high school  
you smiled and told me how  
brave i was  
how strong  
how i didn’t need the medication  
  
and days later when i   
spent two hours sobbing  
until i almost puked  
because of the lasagna i had  
accidentally burnt to a crisp  
you laughed at me  
and my tears  
and told me to suck it up  
to man up  
to just be happy  
  
like you telling me to  
just be happy  
will replace the serotonin my  
brain can’t produce enough  
of on its own  
  
like you calling me weak  
for being on medication  
will take away the very real  
truth that without  
taking those pills every morning  
i would have tried to kill  
myself again and would  
have probably succeeded that time  
  
like you sharing your  
pictures of forest paths  
and demonstrating your complete  
and utter lack of knowledge as to  
how medication that isn’t antibiotics works  
will suddenly fix  
what is broken in my brain  
  
but you take medication   
that a doctor prescribes when you  
are sick enough for that  
to be needed  
and nobody calls you weak  
  
and when you break a bone  
you get it set in plaster  
well i can’t put a cast on  
the cracks in my psyche  
  
so i do the next best thing  
because if your brain can’t  
produce enough serotonin  
to keep you wanting to live  
all on its own  
then store-bought is fine  
  
(and you turning on me  
when my mental illness stops  
being something i can manage  
on my own  
says more about you  
than it ever will about me)


End file.
